I’ve got thumbtacks in my hand for anyone that tries to hold it. I’ve got a cold shoulder because a world of comforting promises just feels like a tundra. Empty, barren, some place I’m going to die. I’m a little broken; and it reads like selfish. I debate over whiskey and wine, like tonight, what it feels like to ‘be helpless, not helpless, and to tell the world to go to hell’. And sometimes when I get drunk enough, I take my broken kneecaps and I pick them up and lead my legs like some fucked up out of body puppeteer towards a lap to lay my head on. Completely belying any point I just had.

And I might find any lap will do, but don’t fool yourself. Once the fucked up, faded facade fades, I’ll know I was just on the lookout for one of those beacons. Beacons, man, they’ve altered my life. Those fearless voices that boomed words of this ‘shit is going to be ok’ and painted pictures of panoramic lands with not an acre of emotional paucity. And I followed them into lush lands that turned into tundras and hugs that turned into bears gnawing on my leg.

I’m aimless, heading toward nowhere at the speed of light
Still dreamless, now that you’re gone I think I lost my fight

And I made it out alive with my spleen taken by a cougar and my heart licked upon by the sharp teeth of a lynx. But I’m not the same, you haunt me like a phantom limb, like the phantom organs and emotions I gave up through trust. And I’m tired of hearing about how terrible of a person I am, because you haunt me. You motherfucking haunt me.

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